


Mine Is The Fury

by TheReluctantBadger



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Mentions of Smut, Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 17:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20679329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheReluctantBadger/pseuds/TheReluctantBadger
Summary: Gendry is left to his own thoughts following Arya's rejection at his proposal.





	Mine Is The Fury

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot came as the result of yet another fantastic prompt on Tumblr, inspired by the gif set of Joe from the play Even Stillness, in which there was speculation from @itsmymeaningoflife as to what if Gendry trashed the forge in a drunken rage following the "doomed feast".

White air puffed in rapid procession out of Gendry's nostrils. His arms hung straight, hands clenched tightly to his sides with nails nearly breaking the skin of his palms. Blue eyes were nearly black and fixed forwards in a sharp gaze as he walked. If there were others passing by, he took no note of them. But there shouldn't have been others. It was deep into the night at Winterfell, deep enough to be called morning, and Lord Baratheon had yet to lay down his head.

The feast had been finished hours ago, the last of the celebrators stumbling their way into their bed or someone else's. That damned feast. He hadn't even wanted to be there. It was no place for him, not a bastard smith who had only ever had just enough on his plate to keep him from starvation. The smell of so much rich food had made him nauseous and he wouldn't have been there at all if not for the good company and seemingly endless flow of wine. He didn't belong there, especially not when he could be somewhere else, with someone else.

Gendry was rounding the courtyard now. Muffled laughter rang out from one of the guard towers. The air still hung heavy with smoke from the pyres, a sickeningly sweet smell of burnt flesh clinging to the stone walls and wood beams. Snow dappled ground crunched softly under his feet as he passed under an arch. Had he circled this way yet? It seemed like it, but he was too lost in his own mind to care.

He had wanted her. That's all he wanted; all it would have taken to make him happy, her. Arya was his answer to every prayer that he had ever muttered, either to the Seven, or to the old gods, or just words spoken to the wind. Years of anger and sadness had been washed clean under her friendly smile that day she appeared in his forge, a cleansing rain on his broken soul. She was a phantom returned from his fondest memories to save him. But she did not want him. Not anymore. He was foolish, he told himself, a stupid drunken baseborn with stupid thoughts. No better than his sire had been.

He felt a little warmer now, as though his blood hadn't already been boiling. It was then that he took note of his surroundings, finding himself standing outside of the forge. His forge. A sooty forge for a common man. Slow steps took him past the threshold and into the dry heat. The area was as empty as the rest of the keep, tools lined dormant along the walls and workbenches. A red glow radiated from the forge itself. Red to match his spirit. His fury.

His breathing quickened. No white puffs came from his breaths now, not in the warmth, but in their place tears were beginning to sting at his eyes. How could he have been so stupid? Stupid stupid Gendry. He was no lord, no Baratheon. He could never be that, so how could he have expected that from her? Whatever gods had heard his prayers had granted him one more chance, and he had destroyed it. Any hope of a future with her had burnt along with the smoldering pyres that lay dormant along Winterfell's walls.

Drifting eyes blurry from rage and exhaustion fell on a narrow doorway, the room beyond black as the night outside, but he knew what it held: spare steel, a small archery target, and sacks of grain where he had loved her with every fiber of his being. He clamped his eyes shut, a loose tear streaking cool down his hot cheek. Memories flooded his mind, of soft skin draped over him, slick with sweat and smelling of her, and eager lips moaning against his as the two of them approached sweet release. Life burned between them that night. She had been his and he had been wholly hers. But no more.

That thought tightened his chest and made the wine in his blood rage. Hands unclenched only to grab the cloak around his shoulders, snapping the broach that held it in place.

He didn't deserve a nice cloak...and he didn't deserve her.

Next to join his cloak on the ground was the leather jerkin that he had been given. Buttons and straps broke under his strength. Neither was his woolen tunic spared, tearing apart as though it were linen.

He didn't deserve a lord's clothes...and he didn't deserve her...

Warm air breathed against his chest where the ripped shreds of cloth failed to cover. There, now he looked right again. Like the baseborn pawn he was. Danaerys had no right in making him anything different. How dare she give him such false hope.

Suddenly he wished that she was there before him, so he could wrap his hands around her neck and demand an answer to the Dragon Queen's cruel joke. But she was not, so instead his hands flew to the closest thing they could reach.

The workbench weighed nothing to him in his rage. Steel swords chimed as they struck against each other and tools flew to the ground in dull thuds, but even the crash of the bench against the stone wall was drowned by the roar that bellowed from Gendry's chest. He was no man in that instant, but a wild animal filled with wrath.

It should have made him feel better. But it didn't. Instead he stood panting and rubbed his now throbbing head. He was less drunk than he had been earlier, when he had gotten down on humble knee and said those cursed words, though that did nothing to ease his muddled thoughts.

He had loved her. He did love her. Gendry had loved her since he was a sullen boy and she was a girl who picked fights that she couldn’t win. He had opened himself wide before her, throwing himself at a chance at a life that he had never even dared to dream of having…with her.

But she had spoken those words. “That’s not me.” And then returned right away to her archery as though he had never come to her. Something in the back of his mind reminded him of the way she had kissed him on bent knee and the almost sorrowful look she had given before giving her answer. Another thought came, of how she owed him nothing and he was stupid to think that laying with her had changed that. But those words, those damned words, "That's not me.", pushed their way to the front of his mind, bringing with them a fresh wave of rage. If they wanted a Baratheon lord, then he would give them all the fury that he could summon.

Another yell ripped from his throat, fueling his strength as another workbench was thrown against the wall, spilling a thousand arrow heads in a sharp rain across the room. But that wasn’t enough. His foot made contact with a barrel of water and a grimy river rolled around his boots as it tipped. Tears were now rolling in steady procession down his cheeks. Quiet sobs hitched in his chest as he grabbed a shovel that had been carelessly left amongst the glowing coals. It too was thrown as far as he could manage. Sparks sprayed around him, red and fierce against the darkness. He hissed in pain as some landed across his bare neck, sending him down onto the wet floor.

Gendry curled into himself, knees drawn tightly against his chest. He was defeated, broken, solitary. Gendry Baratheon was gone, leaving behind Gendry Waters the scared orphan boy. He would have been so good to her. Images filled his head of Arya by his side, not in some grand keep, but in a modest home full of warmth and affection. He would have loved her completely, given her everything she could ever desire. If only she would be his family. That’s all he would ever ask in return.

He felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into blackness as though a fog was covering his mind. She did not want that, at least not with him, so he would let her go. Yet another Baratheon would pass through life as a wasting shadow yearning for a lost love. But he would be that for her, knowing in his heart that she was happy elsewhere. He would never be the same, he knew it. His light had gone out, like the fires of a forge, and they could never be rekindled.

A footstep broke through in his despair. It was intentional, a boot shifting through the wreckage he had caused. Eyes shot open and head whipped upright.

Arya. Standing there looking at him with a mixture of pity and confusion.

He raised a muddy hand to wipe at his red eyes, sitting up to acknowledge her. Thoughts ran through his mind of how she looked the picture of the North itself: hair pulled back neatly, thick gloves on small hands, the tip of her thin blade dipping out from the bottom of her grey cloak.

“You’re leaving.” His voice cracked, both from the crying and the dryness in his mouth.

“I am.” She said simply. Gendry noticed her eyes turn to taken in the state of the forge around her. It was then that he himself noticed what all he had truly done. He didn’t care. Wouldn’t care. “Did you do this?”

He nodded, eyes locking once again to hers.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a lowborn bastard. That’s what we do. We destroy things, even things we love.” His voice grew stronger at the words. It felt good to say them, especially to her. She couldn't make him feel sorry.

Realization dawned in her eyes, though it did nothing to change her calm demeanor. Why should it? He had seen the scars on her flesh. Arya had lived through worse than anything his fury could bring.

"I can't marry you."

"Why not?" he growled. "Will you at least answer that?"

"My list still has names." Of course. Her list. She had names to cross off, and he was just a stupid boy.

The words sat heavy in his head and he closed his eyes to process them. "You're going south."

"I don't expect to return alive, and I refuse to make you a widower."

It took even more strength than it should have to open his eyes and raise his head. He found her closer now, her silent footsteps picking through the wreckage until she was standing before him.

"If you weren't leaving," he stopped short, gritting his teeth as he forced his mouth shut. The thought of another refusal swelled in his throat.

Arya spoke no reply, but instead knelt down before him until her eyes met his. Slowly she peeled the gloves off of her hands, laying them down before reaching up to his shoulders. Gendry closed his eyes yet again in a feeble attempt to stop more tears from falling. Gently, ever so gently, he felt her begin to remove the torn fabric from his body. It slid slowly up over his head and he heard it drop to the mud beside him. Her contact left him after that and he forced his eyes open in time to watch nimble fingers loose the fastening of her cloak. The garment easily from her small frame before draping over his much larger one.

Soft warmth instantly enveloped his bare skin and he found himself surrounded by her scent. The sensations seeped through to his bones, chasing away any trace of fury that was left. "I could never be your lady," she spoke to finish the thought that he had started. "But I would gladly be your family."

Her fingers pinned the cloak in place before raising to cup his face. When Gendry forced his eyes to meet hers he found them glazed with tears, the same as his.

"And if you live?" he forced himself to ask.

"Then we will be family."

Her lips pressed to his as fresh tears began to fall from them both. The forge was no more, Winterfell and it's burning pyres were no more; Arya and her tender kisses were all he could comprehend. He took it all in, letting her consume him completely: the feel of her body so near to his, the taste of her lips as his tongue moved against them, the gentle breaths that moved from her nose across his cheeks. At some point he must have shifted because now he was on his knees with arms circling her waist, holding her as though he could take her into himself by sheer force. Her hands were still on his face, such wonderful hands, thumbs swiping at his cheeks to dry the tears, even though her own were wetting his face as well.

Her kisses slowed and soon stopped entirely. Lips brushed gently together. Gendry dared not to open his eyes, even when she stroked her fingers through his hair and whispered, "I will be your family."

Arya's face moved from his and he felt her stand. Even still, he kept his eyes closed, holding the moment within himself for as long as he was able. She would be gone when he opened his eyes and he couldn't allow himself to watch that. So he stayed on his knees in the middle of the destroyed forge hugging the cloak tightly to himself. Soon the sounds of the keep awaking around him would force him to his feet, where he would slowly clean up the mess he had caused before retreating to his room for rest.

Afterwards, servants would whisper about how Lord Baratheon kept the cloak in a special drawer all to itself, removing it only when he traveled south to King's Landing for the council. Serving girls would sit in the kitchens and giggle over how the stern and sullen smith would soften at the very mention of the Bringer of Dawn. Then they would sigh longingly at rumors that they had cloaked one another in a secret ceremony in the forest that was witnessed only by wolves and stags.

But none were privileged enough to stand by on the day that Gendry stood amongst the dust and rubble and joined in a tearful reunion with his family.

**Author's Note:**

> So?


End file.
